Many parents and grandparents live with a quiet, sometimes secret ache, a deep yearning for their loved ones to return to the Faith. When the pew that was once filled with family now remains empty, it’s not just disappointment, but an unexpected grief. A grief we dare not name out of fear. What are we supposed to do? say something? say nothing? pray?
Of course, we pray. Saint Monica probably doesn't say, “you again?” Not Saint Monica who prayed for 30 years for her son, Saint Augustine. Perseverance in prayer is always a good thing for those you pray for, but for us, too. Perhaps we could begin with the first step, acknowledging our ache.
In his letter to the Romans, Saint Paul confesses, “I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart” (Rom 9:2). In this passage of Scripture, he expresses his profound sorrow at Israel’s lack of faith. Anguish is such a powerful word, and yet it expresses succinctly the dismay we carry, not just when we see the empty pew, but in small moments throughout our family life. Sacraments not celebrated. Burdens not lifted. Gratitude never given. It is no less a cross than other kinds of suffering.
Nevertheless, Saint Paul gives us hope in the unlikeliest way. We want to “fix” our children and grandchildren. Surely the right word or the right encounter will set them on the path to conversion. Instead, Saint Paul exhorts us to be kind. Where our words may sound accusatory or pleading, he tells us, “Let your speech always be gracious” (Col 4:6). Gracious, indeed, for it is grace that carries us through.
The most powerful thing we can do is not talking about Christ, but living a Christ-filled life. Rather than anger or bitterness, we should radiate peace, the peace that our faith in Christ gives us. This faith gives us the strength to forgive, the fortitude to persevere, the trust that God holds us all close to his heart and loves us in immeasurable abundance.
When we live with Christ in us, our joy is palpable. It doesn’t mean we are without suffering or trials, but rather that we radiate his light. This can look like a lot of things: peace, acceptance, perhaps contentment. Most of all, it is love, and this love does not scold but invites. Our peaceful presence invites. Our peaceful presence loves. Warmth and kindness can soften hearts.
Our continued presence in the lives of our loved ones mirrors Christ’s fidelity. Continuing to be present to our loved ones with shared moments and relationship fosters the opportunity to grow trust and move spirits. Our intimacy becomes witness, not quarrel. These instances are borne of a love rooted in truth. In this way, we can trust that God will work in his time.
This organic engagement often comes from our suffering, but it is faithful engagement rooted in charity. Loving those family members who have left or distanced themselves from the faith is complicated. To love is not the same as to condone. There is the temptation to correct or challenge our loved one’s choices. We may feel a sense of urgency to bring them back to the faith because of our love and our concern for their souls.
Consider Saint Paul’s lesson in 1 Corinthians 13: “Love is patient … it bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
What does this kind of love look like in the family? Maybe it is celebrating the good things in their lives. Maybe it is listening without judgment. Maybe it isn’t a knee-jerk reaction to their lived experience in the Church. Not every moment demands a response because the relationship is more than one moment.
Our children and grandchildren deserve our love as total gift without conditions. That moment that unsettles us can be an opportunity for grace. Our presence demonstrates that our love is unconditional, modeled on the Father’s love for us. He wants us to come to him, and we must remember he wants the same for all his children.
It’s not easy, but patient love does not rush the Holy Spirit. After all, we don’t convert anyone’s heart; that’s the work of the Holy Spirit.
For some of us, this kind of presence is unwelcome, even rejected, because of very difficult circumstances. What we can do is “pray without ceasing” (1 Thes 5:17). It can be as simple as “Lord, be with my child” or “Lord, call them back to you.” The most powerful prayer, for me, has always been, “Jesus, I trust in you,” but it is also so very difficult because it demands surrender. Can we let go of our loved ones and let God?
Entrusting someone whom we love to God can feel like abandonment, like we couldn’t handle the responsibility. It’s actually an act of love and trust. We were never their Savior. Christ is their Savior, and he loves them, knows them, pursues them, and has a plan for their salvation. That encourages us: we don’t carry this cross alone. We are participating with Christ in his plan for our loved ones.
If you are carrying this ache, this anguish, as Saint Paul says, be heartened. It is Christ in you that is speaking, witnessing, inviting. Let his light shine in you like a beacon.
Maria Morera Johnson is an author, speaker, and digital missionary, inviting women into hope-filled midlife through A Beautiful Second Act.
Photo credit: Photo by Elina Fairytale
